


Boys Don't Cry

by write_to_cope (Star_stream)



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Also using canon book data and recent movie data, Bowers boys will be in it in a few chapters, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Henry Bowers is Not That Bad, Henry Bowers is broken, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I love psychology, I wanted to explore Henry Bowers' mind, I'm taking creative liberties, Internalized Homophobia, Losers may be mentioned later on, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Neglect, Physical Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Abuse, Why Did I Write This?, might add a ship or two in here when the time comes, writing accents is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21789763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_stream/pseuds/write_to_cope
Summary: "Don' fuckin' tell me to calm down!" He slammed his fists on the table. "You fuckers act like it was all my fault! Like it's my fault everythin' went to shit! It was all a shit show b'fore this!" His voice was trembling.The doctor hummed, watching the teen's body language. The way his hands had started to shake, the way his breaths had quickened, telltale signs of distress and fear. He leaned back in his seat, giving himself some distance from Henry. "Why don't you tell me the truth then?"After being arrested for the death of his father, as well as his friends and various other deaths in Derry, Maine, Henry has his own story to tell. Coming from an abusive and broken home doesn't raise the most mentally stable people, after all. Please heed the warnings in the tags and take them seriously.
Relationships: Oscar "Butch" Bowers/Henrietta Bowers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	1. I'm (Not) the Bad Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my dears, if you are reading this than you have read through the tags and decided to take the journey into this fucked up work of fiction. As my name states, I write to cope with traumas, but as someone with a degree in psychology I also use this as an opportunity to explore the human psyche. This is the only other warning you will receive: This work contains potentially triggering content, which includes abuse(Verbal, child, physical, emotional, and psychological) as well as excessive use of alcohol, and domestic violence. If any of these bother you, please hit the back button, do not leave complaints in the comments that you weren't warned. I am basing most of this off the 2017 adaptation, but will also have some elements from the book or general lore from the book. Still here? Then please enjoy(?) this potentially wild ride.

**September, 1989**

Catching Henry Bowers after the brutal murder of his father had been pretty easy. As subpar as the Derry police were, it was easy enough for them to narrow the suspects down; it wasn't a secret that Oscar 'Butch' Bowers was a drunk ass who abused his power, and his violent streak against his son had made Henry a prime suspect. When he had come home covered in the blood of not only his father, but his friends Vic and Belch as well, the police force of Derry had been waiting for him and quickly took him into custody. It had been about a month and a half since then, and while Henry had been blamed for all the murders that summer, they hadn't been able to get any information out of him about them. He hadn't argued about the conviction, he had nothing he could say to prove or disprove his involvement in the several murder. Finally fed up, the police had called in a psychologist from another city to come interview Henry.

He hadn't wanted to have this "goddamn" interview, but he had begrudgingly cooperated when he was escorted to a room with cement walls and a one way window, a simple table and two chairs in the center of the room. He had been in here several times since then, barraged with questions on why and where he murdered the missing children. He was still cuffed as he was forced to sit in one of the chairs, grunting a little at the force the officers used. He covertly flipped them off as they left him in there, dropping his had back to stare at the ceiling. He knew the officers would be watching him on the other side of the window, he'd figured that out by now. In the first several days, he had done a lot of yelling, cursing, and generally inappropriate behavior. By now he was done with the amusement of being as inappropriate as he could be whilst in handcuffs. He thrummed his fingers on the metal table, letting the quiet thud of the table fill the otherwise silent room. The silence was deafening and set his nerves on edge; he couldn't explain why, because he didn't know. Maybe it was knowing that silence used to mean bad things, or because he felt like he was being watched from somewhere other than the window.

There was a click as the door unlocked and creaked open, an older gentleman in a gray suit and tacky tie stepping into the room. Henry lifted his head a bit, locking his eyes on who he assumed was the doctor. He had a bushy mustache that reminded Henry of a push broom, and eyes that kind of reminded him of his mother; kind, genuine eyes. On some level it made him squirm, sitting up more as he watched the doctor walk over calmly. The man pulled out his chair and sat down, placing his open notebook down on the table. He smiled gently at Henry, causing the teen to avert his eyes. "Good afternoon, Young Bowers. I'm Doctor Cheston, I was asked to come speak with you today. May I call you Henry?"

The kind speech and gentle nature was so much like his mother, it was troublesome. He snorted in annoyance, picking at his finger nails-or what was left of them. "Doesn' fuckin' matter, yer gonna do whatchu want anyway," he grumbled, choosing to watch his cuffed hands than look at the doctor. When there was no response, he glanced up. "…What? Whadda ya want?"

"I'm waiting for you to tell me if I can call you Henry," Dr. Cheston replied simply. "If you aren't comfortable with that I can call you Mr. Bowers--"

" _Don't._ " Dr. Cheston hadn't even finished his sentence when Henry interrupted him rather harshly. The teen's jaw was clenched, lips drawn into a thin line as he glared daggers at the doctor. "Don' call me that, ever, ya hear me?" he spat, slamming his fists on the table with a loud bang. "I'm not like that muthafuckin' sumbitch, I don' want his fuckin' name as my own, are we clear?!" He paused, before exhaling sharply through his nose and looking at the door. "…Henry is fine."

The gentleman didn't even flinch as Henry threw his small tantrum, quietly jotting down the reaction and trigger. "Alright, I won't call you that. Henry it is." He gave Henry a moment to calm down before he spoke again. "Now then…I've already spoken to the police a bit. Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

He gave Dr. Cheston a look of pure annoyance. Why was he asking such a stupid question if he had already spoke with the police? They had probably given the doctor his whole file-he could see the notes in the notebook for Christ's sake. "You read the goddamn reports, I already know that, why are you askin' me this shit?"

"I'm asking you, not the police," he hummed.

Henry was quiet for several beats. He wasn't the brightest, making things a little difficult to think through at times. After a long pause, he let out a huff of air through his nose. "I killed people."

"Who?"

"…my friends. My old man. Buncha kids."

"Are you saying that, or is that what you were told happened?"

"Lil bit of both, I guess…"

Dr. Cheston hummed, tapping his pen on the paper after making a note. "I see. How did you kill your father, Henry?"

The funny thing about the question was, he only vaguely remembered doing it. He remembered the knife in the mailbox attached to a red balloon, which had been weird in general. And he remembered the red hot anger that he had felt, like a tidal wave crashing over him. Blind rage, he was told that's what it was called. But that was it. "I put the knife to his neck while he was sleeping, pressed the button to make the knife come out, and just held it there." It was such an empty, mechanical answer, there was no obvious remorse. "And that was it."

The doctor watched him carefully, taking note of his body language as he spoke. "And how do you feel about that?"

He gave an awkward sort of shrug, hissing when he accidentally ripped a hangnail on his finger. " _Sumbitch_ …" He sucked on the finger for a moment before looking at the doctor to answer his question. "He was a fuckin' drunkass bastard. Course I ain't sad."

He watched Henry quietly. "I see. And what about your friends, I believe it was Victor Criss and Reginald Huggins?"

"Vic and Belch…" He mumbled. This time his expression shifted, a faint hint of anguish glazing over his eyes before he quickly shook it off. "What 'bout 'em?"

The man made a note of the oh so subtle change in expression. "Well the report says you killed them as well. Is that true--"

"I dunno."

He raised a brow. "You don't know? Care to elaborate?"

He rolled his eyes. "There's nothin' to elaborate on."

"What do you mean, Henry?"

"What the _fuck_ do you think it means, dipshit?!" he roared, standing up so fast that the feet of his chair screeched along the floor. The handcuffs on his wrists clanged loudly against the table. "I said _I dunno_ , didn' I?!" And that was the honest truth. He didn't know how he supposedly killed them. He didn't remember the event, he just knew they had found Belch and Vic with their throats slit, and had found the other teens' blood all over him. However, no matter how much Henry wracked his brain he couldn't find any sort of memory of such a thing. There was a blank space in his memory of at least a couple hours that he couldn't explain. He had tried, mostly for his own closure. They had been his best friends since they were kids, after all; finding out they were gone, supposedly by his hand, had been a hard pill to swallow. He still hadn't succeeded. " _I dunno_ if its true that I killed 'em, I don' _remember_ shit 'bout it. The fuckin' squad or whatever, found their blood on me, and later found 'em in Belch's car with their throats cut open, put it together and I'm apparently the one who did it even though I don' remember fuckin' doin' it! Plus, they were my best fuckin' friends since we were kids, why would I do that?! They were always there fer me when no one else was!"

Dr. Cheston didn't flinch when Henry started yelling, showed no sense of alarm. He was perfectly calm and quiet, letting the sixteen year old express his feelings. He saw no problem with letting an obviously malcontent and confused young man getting defensive over circumstances, especially in this case. He found Henry's lack of memory to be interesting, in fact. "You don't remember?" he repeated, making sure he kept his voice calm. His tone seemed to put the teen into some sense of calm as he slowly sat down again, hands resting on the table. Henry nodded faintly, and the man hummed with interest. "Are there other things you don't remember, Henry?"

He didn't answer initially, trying to find something in the room to occupy his gaze, while also double checking nothing was watching him within the room. "They said I killed a buncha the kids that went missing this summer. I don' remember anythin' like that."

"Do you think you did it?"

Did he? It didn't sound right to him. He knew he hadn't been thinking really well all summer, that his head was kind of fuzzy, but something like that would be something he felt he would remember. "No."

"Why's that?"

Henry shifted in his seat, both in discomfort from the lowkey interrogation, but also because he felt his butt going to sleep. "I mighta beat kids up, mighta stole lunch money and harassed 'em. But woulda never kidnapped 'em, or murder 'em. Where would I hide 'em anyways? Don' exactly have a good place." He frowned, brows furrowing. "They found 'em in the sewers. I hate that place. Like hell I'd go there to hide a fuckin' body, let alone however many there were."

There was a sound of acknowledgment from the doctor as he looked at his notes. It was interesting to him that the sixteen year old had been charged with such horrific acts, yet he showed some semblance of remorse. If he was truly the psychopathic murderer the records had painted Henry out to be, there would be no remorse, no grief. "Can I ask you a question, Henry?"

"You been askin' a bucha questions, why stop now?" he replied sarcastically.

"Police records stated that you didn't argue against the charges." The doctor stroked his mustache momentarily, watching Henry's body language. "If you weren't involved with these, why would you accept them?"

He shrugged. "Kinda hard to fight somethin' when you got no proof you did or didn' do it." The reason actually made a bit of sense, especially to a teen with nothing left to lose. "I couldn' prove that I didn' kill 'em, 'specially with the gap."

"Gap?"

"Things got kinda fuzzy 'round the time I killed the old man. Like…I don' really remember everythin' 'bout it." He started biting at his thumb nail, as much as remained in chewing capacity. "It's kinda like…flashes or somethin'."

"Flashes?"

"Yeah. Like…" He closed his eyes tightly, concentrating hard on trying to remember. "I remember findin' the knife, in the mail box. I remember seein' him in the chair sleepin'. And…" He paused, frowning as his eyes opened. "I kinda remember, the tv."

Dr. Cheston sat up straight, clicking his pen as he prepared to jot something down. He had the distinct feeling he was on to something. "The tv? Did you see something on it?"

"Yeah. Well, no? I'm…" Henry clumsily ran his cuffed hands through his hair. "I dunno. There was a kiddie show on. They were sayin' somethin'. And the lady on the tv was cheerin' 'em on."

He leaned forward. "Were they speaking to you, Henry?" When the teen nodded, he pressed further. "What did they say?" This was starting to sound like some form of psychosis, although the why was a mystery still. If the doctor could just pinpoint the cause, he could make a determination.

The young man shifted in his seat, faint hints of discomfort on his face; he bit his cheek, lips pressed together and brows furrowed in contemplation. "They were sayin' _kill them all_." It was impressive how much brighter he sounded when he actually enunciated his words. "That's it. Over and over and over and over. And…that clown…." His gaze shifted, going completely blank.

Dr. Cheston locked on Henry's gaze, humming. "A clown? Where was the clown, Henry?" It was a clear sign of dissociation, which was, in the majority of cases, caused by trauma. It peaked the doctor's interest; what kind of trauma could Henry have gone through to make it this severe? Being from outside of Derry, Oscar Bowers' history and rumored abuse was unknown to him.

"The TV," he mumbled. "But he was like…ya know, he hadn' been there b'fore. He wasn't there and then he was as the kids on tv were chantin', just starin' at me…and when the knife came out, he was smilin'."

That was more than a little concerning to the doctor. "Smiling? That's pretty normal for clowns, isn't it?"

He shook his head. "Not like this…ya know, I can't remember specific details, like what happ'ned or the fuckin' thing's makeup and clothes. But the smile he gave me, I can remember."

"Can you describe it?"

"Nah…I don' got the right vocab fer that."

The gentleman hummed, rather interested in what the teen meant. "Well…what about drawing? Could you draw it for me?" There was a pause, before Henry nodded. He probably wouldn't get it exact, but he could probably do enough to get his point across. Dr. Cheston smiled and slid the notebook he had been writing in to Henry, sitting the pen on top of it. Given circumstances, the officers hadn't allowed him pens or papers, so it was surprising to Henry. Drawing was a little hard with his hands still cuffed, but he managed. It was a rather crude drawing; he was no artist after all. The face had what looked like a heavy brow, eyes blank with one pointing elsewhere. The mouth had thin lips, deep smile lines, and the bottom lip was almost comically elongated. What intrigued the doctor was the sharp teeth. It was just a strange and specific detail. He hummed as Henry passed the notebook and pen back, looking over the little doodle. "Interesting. Thank you for sharing this with me, Henry." He clicked his tongue. "You seem to be suffering from a sort of psychosis--"

"I ain't a fuckin' psycho!" Henry's jaw clenched. "Alrigh'? I know what I fuckin' saw! I wasn' seein' shit!"

He held his hands up in a submissive gesture. "Now Henry. I need for you to calm down."

"Don' fuckin' tell me to calm down!" He slammed his fists on the table. "You fuckers act like it was all my fault! Like it's my fault everythin' went to shit! It was all a shit show b'fore this!" His voice was trembling.

The doctor hummed, watching the teen's body language. The way his hands had started to shake, the way his breaths had quickened, telltale signs of distress and fear. He leaned back in his seat, giving himself some distance from Henry. "Why don't you tell me the truth then?"


	2. I Hate Myself For Loving You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory of Henry's parents, Henrietta and Oscar, shortly before he was born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. Between the holidays and work, things got out of control. From here on, the story will be focusing on the Bowers family dynamic. Obviously a lot of this will be creative liberties, as we don't really know what happened while Henry grew up, just what was in the books/movies. This chapter introduces Henry's mom, Henrietta, and his father Butch shortly before he was born. He has no canon birthday, so I've made it November 11th. The abuse begins here, so consider this your final warning.

**October 1974**

When Henrietta had learned she was pregnant with Butch's child, the two had done the most quickly pulled together white trash wedding Derry had ever seen. She hadn't wanted it that way, but like hell was she going to give birth to a baby out of wedlock. She was just religious enough that she believed it wrong and trashy. But, if she was perfectly honest, she had never intended to marry Butch. They had been a couple in high school, and had taken a break while Butch was overseas; he had gone into the marines as soon as he turned 18. After four long years he had returned, and the two had reconnected. They got together, and then one thing lead to another, and got married within weeks of finding out she was pregnant. She knew on some level that marrying him was a bad idea; he had been so much more aggressive and violent with her since returning. He had always been rather rough around the edges, but it had gotten worse. And now, her baby boy was coming soon. It had taken quite a bit of convincing to get Butch to agree on the name Henry, which she was quite fond of; her grandfather had been named Henry and she had wanted to honor him. Butch had eventually given in, though more out of annoyance than actually liking the name. She was pleased either way.

It was the middle of October, about a week and a half until Halloween, and Henrietta was enjoying decorating the windows with a special paint. She always did little paintings on the front windows for the holidays, always feeling festive. Sure it was a little harder, her tummy tended to get in the way as she slowly approached her due date: November 11th. Butch was at work with the police station, though the soon-to-be mother knew he would be home soon. Butch usually got home between 17:30 and 18:00--Butch had forced her to learn military time in the first few months of him being back. She wanted to finish before he got home, but it looked like that wasn't going to happen. Stretching over her tummy and the furniture had made it more than a tad harder than it used to be. She grunted as she stretched as high as she could to paint bats over top a bright glowing moon in the middle of the left front window. There was a soft and happy sound as she filled it in, and just in time. The red truck crawled onto the snow covered gravel driveway, alerting Henrietta of her husband's arrival. She quickly grabbed her paints and rushed off to put them away.

Butch was, for all intensive purposes, intimidating as hell. Even before he had joined the Marines, he had always been an abrasive man. The military had only intensified his behavior. Many in Derry were concerned for Henrietta because of how aggressive Butch was known to be. He had gotten in his share of bar fights, and "accidently" hurt people when apprehending them. No one really knew what Henrietta saw in him, and just kept an eye on her as she got closer to her due date. The ground crunched under his boot as he got out of the truck, slamming the door roughly with a loud _bam!_ He didn't bother knocking the snow off his boots as he came inside, tracking dirty boot prints across the wooden floor to the kitchen. He went straight to the fridge, grabbing out a beer and making note of how clean the kitchen was. No sign that his wife had made him dinner. A tinge of anger flicked through him; if he was going to be out there, working hard and risking his life to make money, she could at least have dinner made for him.

"Welcome home, darling!" Henrietta cheered as she came into the kitchen, all smiles. "How was your day? Catch any criminals?" She had a genuine interest in what her husband did, and tried hard to be supportive. She _did_ love her husband, after all.

"It would be better if I came home to a hot dinner," he replied, a bite to his tone that made his wife recoil a bit. "I get outta bed at 4 in the mornin'. I work tirelessly for 12 hours, keepin' ya and the rest of this ungrateful town safe." He grabbed her left arm roughly, squeezing. Henrietta tried to pull her arm out of his hold, soft pained sounds leaving her. "Do ya know what _yer_ job is?" When she didn't reply immediately, he shook her as she yelped. " _What is yer job?!_ " he roared, pulling her as close as he could manage.

"T-to have dinner on the table, and clean house," she managed to stammer out, her hand on Butch's chest as she pushed to try to get away. "But-"

" _No buts! That is yer job!_ " He shoved her into the wall; she had been quick to turn so her back was against the wall, trying to keep her baby safe. "But all ya do is _sit around_ , and ya use that goddamn _baby_ as an excuse! The truth is, yer a lazy fuckin' bitch!" He grabbed her jaw hard enough that she knew it would bruise later. "So I'm gonna ask again: _Where is my fuckin' dinner?!_ "

"It's being kept warm in the oven!" she yelled back, grabbing at his wrist. Butch paused, so she continued. "I made your dinner, plated it just how you like it, and I turned the oven on warm to keep your food from getting cold." As upset as she was, Henrietta knew better than to let Butch see her cry. She kept a stern expression, squeezing his wrist. "I did my job. Now let go of me, Oscar. Please."

His grip slowly loosened, to his wife's relief. Butch pulled away from her and went to the oven. Sure enough, the oven dial was set to warm. When he opened it he saw the carefully plated dinner: two slices of meatloaf, a pile of fresh mashed potatoes topped with gravy, and a side of peas. Just how he liked it. He didn't apologize or thank her, just grabbed it with a towel, grabbed his utensils and beer, and went to the living room to eat.

Henrietta gave Butch space, taking deep breaths in the kitchen as she stroked her tummy. The tiny kicks from Henry were soothing somehow. She would protect him at all costs. The soon-to-be mother only came to him when called, taking Butch's plate and empty beer to the kitchen and returning with another beer. She cleaned the dishes quickly, before approaching her husband. "Oscar? I need to go to the store…may I borrow the truck?"

He looked at her passed the beer bottle in his hand. There was a long pause. "Can yer fat ass even get in it?"

She inhaled slowly, lips pressing into a thin line as she exhaled. "I'm fairly sure I can…"

"Ya can walk, cantcha?" he replied. "Or are yer legs broken?"

Henrietta stiffened. "Oscar…it's 38 degrees outside…there's some snow on the ground…It would be much easier and quicker if I just took the truck…"

"Ya coulda gone earlier, when it was light out. Right?"

She sighed heavily in defeat. She wasn't getting the truck. "You're right…" She mumbled, starting to head for the bedroom. "I'll just walk then." She bundled up as best as her very pregnant body could, a white knitted hat over her wavy blond hair, and a thick scarf with her warmest coat. She somehow managed to put on a pair of boots on, before slipping gloves on, grabbing her purse, and leaving. They lived on the outskirts of Derry, but even then it wasn't usually _that_ long of a walk. The struggle for Henrietta was just how pregnant she was. She didn't walk anymore, she waddled. That was the only way to describe how she looked right now, with one gloved hand on her tummy, her other carrying her purse. Any other time she would have found this funny, but considering situations, she was less than amused. There were very few streetlamps here on the edge of town, leaving her mostly in darkness. She briefly wondered what would happen if she went missing, but quickly dismissed it.

Finally arriving, Henrietta heaved a sigh of relief, grabbing herself a shopping cart and loading her hat, gloves and scarf into the baby seat before she shuffled around for the groceries she needed. She kept mostly to herself, only asking for assistance when she couldn't reach something. As she was trying to reach a can of corn, she was spooked when her name was called. "Henrietta Bowers, is that you?" She turned around, before sighing in relief.

If there was any couple that could be seen as physical opposites, it would be Frank Kaspbrak and his wife Sonia. Frank was a taller and slender man, thin brown hair and a thick mustache. Sonia was on the shorter side, with thick brown hair to her shoulders and large glasses. They had been married since shortly after graduation, and had been trying to start a family with no success. Regardless, they were kind and looked out for Henrietta. Sonia adjusted her glasses, smiling at the pregnant woman. "My my, look how you’ve grown, dear! You look like you've eaten a whole watermelon!"

Henrietta laughed a little, hand on her rather large baby bump. "I suppose so," she replied. "He'll be here in just a few weeks. I'm rather excited."

Sonia cooed, walking over and quietly asking permission before placing her own hand on the bump. "Goodness, last time I saw you, you were barely showing! Its so exciting." She laughed when she felt a few kicks to her hand. "A lively one, isn't he?"

"Very. He keeps me up some nights."

Frank chuckled. "He should be letting his mother sleep! Have you settled on a name, dear?" He casually reached up to the cans Henrietta had been struggling to grab, sticking a few in her cart.

She nodded. "Henry. I wanted to name him after my grandfather."

He hummed, stroking his chin. "Henry," he repeated. "Means 'Ruler of the household'. Germanic." He nodded decisively. "A good strong name. May he be strong like his mother."

The mother-to-be laughed. "Aw, thank you, Frank. You're so sweet."

"Isn't he though?" Sonia hummed, beaming happily. She kissed her husband's cheek before looking to Henrietta again. "You about finished, hun? Do you need anything else that Frank can get for you?"

"No, I think this is it. Just trying to figure out how to get all this home."

There was a pause, the couple staring at her. "Don't tell me he made you walk," Frank mumbled. They didn't have to say Butch's name, they were all on the same page. When she nodded, he scoffed. "How dare he make you walk…it's cold out, and dark too! Something could happen to you!"

"Not to mention, you're weeks away from having a baby!" Sonia added. "That kind of activity could break your water or induce labor!" She huffed, as she glanced to her husband. "Frank, I can go shopping tomorrow, why don't we drive her home?"

Henrietta's eyes widened a fraction. Logistically, she knew it would be safer for her to get a ride from the Kaspbraks; it would save her from freezing and getting sick. On the other hand, however, Butch would be angry if she had someone bring her home. He always claimed she was putting people out of their way when she did that. "That's really sweet of you…but I wouldn't want to impose-"

"Not at all, Henrietta," Frank replied, smiling brightly waving off her concern. "It would put our minds at ease to know you made it home safely." He gestured to the front register. "Why don't you and Sonia get checked out, and I'll bring the car around? So you don't slip carrying things."

She finally gave in, nodding as her shoulders sagged in defeat. They were such good people, she didn't want them to think she was ungrateful for their effort. "Alright…we'll meet you outside then, Frank. Thank you." She watched him shuffle off, restraining herself from sighing as she looked to Sonia. "Well…shall we then?" She couldn't help but smile at Sonia's enthusiasm when the larger woman grinned and lead the way to the register. She let Sonia pile the groceries on the counter, chattering on about how excited she was for Henrietta to have her baby. It was refreshing for someone else to be as enthusiastic about the baby as she was. Butch never seemed to care. Once everything was bagged and purchased, she followed Sonia outside to Frank. As promised, he was directly in front of the store, and quickly scooped the bags from her. Once everything was loaded up, the Kaspbraks drove her home. Frank pulled right up into their dirt driveway, helping Henrietta carry the bags to at least the front porch. Henriette didn't want them to get mixed up with Butch, she could handle him. She wished them goodbye, and waited until they were out of sight before she started carrying the bags inside, one by one.

Butch hadn't said a word while his wife carried the bags in, and it wasn't until Henrietta was putting groceries away that he got out of his chair and headed to the kitchen. She didn't even get the chance to turn around before he grabbed a fistful of her blond hair, yanking her head back and making her cry out and grab at his hand. He shook her before pulling her back against him, his free hand holding onto her jaw tightly. " _Now what did I tell ya 'bout havin' people bring ya home?_ " He hissed in her ear. " _Are ya really going to bother others and make a burden of yourself?"_ He clicked his tongue, hands tightening painfully. " _Did you really think I wouldn' notice the car in the drive? Ya think I'm stupid?"_

"No," she yelped, squirming a bit. Henrietta knew he wasn't stupid; he was observant, even when it didn't look like he as paying attention, and had a strange knowledge of things. "No, I don't think you're stupid! I know you're not!" She let out a sharp cry as her hair was tugged more. It hurt, and for a moment she thought he as going to tear her scalp off her head. "I didn't ask-! They insisted on bringing me home! I told them not to worry about it, but they wouldn't take no for an answer! I'm sorry, honey…!"

Butch let out a low growl, slamming her head into the wall roughly before he let her go. " _I swear to God, if ya keep this up there won' be a baby nomore._ " He shoved her to the floor before walking back to the living room, boots thumping across the floor.

Henrietta stayed on the floor, taking shaky breaths as she rubbed her tummy and cried silently. " _It's okay, Henry,"_ she whispered. " _It's okay…you're safe, my baby boy…_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
> Feedback
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**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions(Except spoilers)
>   * Constructive Criticism
>   * "<3" as extra Kudos
> 

> 
> LLF Comment Builder  
> This author replies to comments.  
> If you don't want a reply for any reason(sometimes I may feel shy when I'm reading and no up to starting conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with "whisper" and I will appreciate but not respond!


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